


The Right Side of the Wall

by MarisFerasi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Captain John Watson, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Multi, Not very accurate, Oral Sex, Roman Britain, Sex Slave, Slavery, erm wtf, magic kinda, one-shot?, roman AU for posterity, sherlock is the slave, short-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6720802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John buys slave Sherlock and the smex occurs. Couple of chapters, one-shot or whatever. Needed this out of my head :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purchase and Claiming

**Author's Note:**

> for an anthropologist, i am embarrassed at how historically inaccurate this is going to be, but i am frankly too lazy to come up with a new world all my own for the sake of a one-shot. deal. enjoy the steamy dirty Roman Britain/gaelic slave soldier smex and don't hate me.   
> kthanksbai!

Captain John Watson and his two servant men were riding the length of the low Antonine wall, peering over the foggy landscape of the craggy Highlands. They had been watch for several hours and his horse was growing weary and their bellies ached with hunger. Their rations had runout hours ago.

“Sir, wos’ tha’?” Gregor asked, squinting into the murk. John twisted in his saddle and watched a small cart with a single horse clopping between the rises of two hills a few miles out. There was a driver, he could see as they approached, and a band of several men walking in a single queue behind it.

“Cart.” John grumbled, huffing into his fists. He stuck them under his armpits and waited, vigilant of wayward scots coming near the wall, up to their tricks. The strangers were much closer now, and the fog had cleared around them. John narrowed his eyes at a thin bundle trailing under the cart, dragged by it. The man must be a slaver, and this one had died on the road.  

Gregor clenched his fists in his master’s horse’s reigns. He remembered being at the mercy of a slaver, and the hatred ignited in his blood.

“Calm, Gregor. Ye’ll not be goin’ back so calm down.” He watched as the man’s shoulders sank a bit, but the tension was still palpable. Gregor and Michael had been bought by John years ago, and after they had proven their loyalty to him in a battle, he’d granted them freedom and the option to stay on in the Roman army as his own servicemen. They’d happily agreed, and been outfitted quickly.  

“Halt, there, slaver! What is your business driving past this wall?” John called out to the man as he approached the gate where the Roman soldier stood vigil. The slaver tugged his horse to a halt and threw back his snow-dampened hood.

“Aye Cap’n, I am a slaver. I caught these scots when their village was burning, runnin’ about like heathens. ‘M headed to the city, doon to Londinium ter sell them fast, if ye’ll let me pass, sir.”

John harrumphed into his beard and slid off his mount, coming to the gateway to look over the man and his claims. “Londinium you say? You plan to make it down with all fifteen, when you’ve already lost one? They’ll starve to death before you get near, if they don’t freeze first.” Most of the captives were in their shirtsleeves, with two or three being draped in thick fur hides and boots. They all gnashed their teeth and growled at the sight of him. As he walked back toward the front of the cart, the bundle being dragged stirred a bit, coughing violently. “Oh-ho, what is this here? Not dead?” he stopped and knelt near the person.

Wrapped in a moth-eaten linen cloak was a thin, long man, pale as a ghost. His bleeding wrists were shackled to the axel of the cart; it was evident that he hadn’t been expected to survive and had been dragged south to bury where the freeze hadn’t hardened the ground. The slaver grumbled audibly and clambered his fat arse down off the cart.

“If’n you want one, take any but ye’ll not do good to take that one. Earned hisself a good beatin’ he did, and now what’s to show for it. Dragging arse like that. He’s being kept for buggery bait, if we run into trouble on the road.” The man laughed aloud, his huge belly swaying. “Let the rotters take the pretty one with the longlegs, and those eyes—did ye get a peek at ‘em? I can still make a profit on the rest.” The slavery hacked deep in his throat and spat a large wad of mucus into the mud near the injured slave’s body. John’s mouth twisted. The man tied to the cart shook with more coughs, his whole frame wracking with the violence of them. As he turned his face to glance up at John in inquiry, the soldier noted two things; blood on his exotic lips, and those stunning eyes, the color of a rare milky jade, or pale sea-glass from Egypt.     

“You dare to tell me that not only are you refusing me this man, if I want him, but that you have every intention of leaving him in the road helpless to be raped if you run into bandits?” the slaver looked uncomfortable, but nodded, hands twisting.

“Aye sir, ‘e was a prossitute in the town where I found ‘em. Mos’ the men I ‘ave here in the line ‘ave ‘ad ‘im, so they’re spoutin’.” The slaver spoke to the dirt, avoiding John’s angry gaze.

“Untie him at once. I want him.” The man hesitated, thinking of a way to deny John, but he evidently knew better than to question the authority and right of a captain in the occupying Roman army. He cut the ropes tying the man to the cart and stood back, waiting further instruction. There was a weak cough and hiccup from the brown pile in the road, before a faint voice crackled out:

“Wuh-water?” John froze, fingers in his purse, digging out a few coins for payment of the slave. He opened mouth to say to the slaver, “He knows the common tongue?”—when the man bent and cracked an open hand across the injured man’s face, and he crumpled.

“Ye’ll keep your whore mouth shut!” he screamed at the heap.

“Sir,” John clenched his purse in his fist and straightened to his full height. “Did you just hit my slave without permission to do so?” the slaver took a step back, but bucked up his courage enough to answer,

“Well, nossir... you hasn’t paid for ‘im yet, he’s still mine to do with as I please. One last lesson before you cart ‘im off.” John closed the distance between them, Gregor at his heels and hand on his dagger.

“And did you not, slaver, hear me say that I wanted him?”

“Yessir,” the man whispered. 

“Gregor, Michael, did you not hear me say this man was to be mine?”

“Yes sir, Captain, we did.” They answered in unison.

“Then, slaver. You are out of your depth. You may not lay a hand on another man’s slave in Roman territory. The only reason I do not chop off your hand where you are stood is because you are on the right side of this wall, do you hear?” his voice is low, threatening. He’s made boys wet their tunics in training with this tone. Gregor fisted his hilt behind John’s shoulder. Mike was further back, ready to step in if necessary. “You will leave from here with no payment for these _severely_ damaged goods, and count yourself _lucky_ , thief, that you did not lose a limb to your impudence. Do we have an accord,” he hissed through clenched teeth. The slaver had the good sense to nod and scurry back to his horse, tapping its rump and starting the caravan back up as Gregor dragged the limp body out from the muck. “Ho there, sign this as a bill of sale,” John handed Michael a scrap of papyrus and a wet quill from his saddle bag. He ran over to the cart and handed it up. The slaver paused, scratched a line and (not knowing how to read or write) an X onto the papyrus and John filled in the rest.

“One damaged and ill male scots slave, approximately five and twenty years of age, black of hair with pale eyes, at the wall passing, to Captain John Watson for no payment, as retribution for impunity.” He was muttering, tongue between his teeth as he scratched out his own signature and stuffed the letter-turned-receipt into his bag again and stomped over to where Gregor was unwrapping their newest addition on the grassy earth.

The man was very tall, nearing twelve hands long on the ground, once stretched out. John noticed the man’s obvious pain as Gregor looked him over, and put a hand out. “Wait. We’ll inspect him a little once he’s eaten and bathed.” As Gregor opened his mouth to say he wasn’t sure they’d make it home with the man alive, John’s replacement showed up with his two men following.

“Get him onto the horse, hurry. Michael, where is my skin of boiled water?” the man so named produced it and John uncorked the neck, tipping it into his new slave’s cracked mouth. He man’s eyes flew open and he struggled, trying to take the skin away from John and down it whole, but the soldier held fast. “Not so much or you’ll be sick. Not wasting clean water,” he grumbled, tugging the skin out of the slave’s hands and standing to greet his replacement. The other soldier, Anderson, asked after the slaver, eyeing John’s new addition quietly. He knew of John’s taste in women, but not of men. Then again, he wouldn’t know of it inside the military, would he? Not unless some _concubinus_ came ‘round or the other officers shared their _pueri_. He smiled toothily and let John go back to his men so they could take their leave. As the Captain rode by, the new slave slung across his lap on the horse, Anderson let slide,

“Have a good night, breaking in your new _scultimidonus_.” His men chuckled and took their places along the wall camp, stoking the small fire and tying their horses. John’s jaw clenched, but none of his men reacted, and he was proud, at least, for that.

Anderson was a little shit.

* * *

 

“Gregor, I want you to take this one below. Wash him and clothe him, _brand him,_ and bring him back to my tent by supper.” Gregor’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sir? You want me to…to brand him? Already?” The soldier was eyeing the pale lump of flesh at the edge of John’s tent with a sad cast to his gaze.

“Did I stutter?” John puffed out his chest and stood up to his ward. “Yes, you will brand him and return him to me. Repeat your orders.”

“I… I’m to take him below, wash, re-clothe, and brand the poor sod, and return him here before supper.  Sir.”

John sighed heavily and removed his armor piece by piece. “What, Lestrade?”

“That means, sir, that you ‘ave no intent of ever releasing ‘im. He’ll be your slave forever, or die?” Gregor shifted on his feet, unhappy. Unwilling. But loyal.

“Yes. You heard the slaver, Greg. He was a whore when he was found. He can never be freed, society will never accept him as a freeman. He’s… weak. In their eyes.” John straightened again and scrubbed a hand over his filthy face. Scratched at his beard. “Do as I say. Now. Michael!” the other soldier came in the tent, switching places with Gregor as the older man went out and gathered the pile of half-conscious man.

“Yessir?” Mike asked, ready for orders.

“Please go and tell the cook I’ll need two dinners ready for me in two hours, I’ll be eating in my tent. Then take the rest of the night off. Got that?”

Michael nodded. “Two dinners, in your tent, in two hours. Yessir, ‘ave a good night!” John nodded—mostly to himself—and Mike strode out with purpose and John heaved a great sigh. He had to slowly nourish his new slave back to health, and convince the man not to run when (and if) his legs started working again.      

It was going to be a long few weeks.

* * *

 

Nearly two hours later, Gregor returned carrying the man in his arms. He looked very unhappy, and the slave was clearly intoxicated. His head lolled over the curve of Gregor’s arm. John jumped up and pointed where he had cleared a space at the foot of his bed for his new slave to sleep.

“What happened?” John demanded, looking in the man’s bleary eyes. Gregor pushed at him until his body flopped onto its side, listless.

“I had to get ‘im drunk to brand ‘im. He was screaming, even before I sat ‘im on the ice brick, and then passed clean out after.” They shared a glance as John ran his fingers gently over the burnt flesh of the JW now imprinted on the man’s flank, with John’s sigil, a wolf, underneath. He nodded and lay the man back on his back.

“Thank you, Greg. I know you weren’t happy to have to do this, but I appreciate it.” John fingered the man’s new steel-blue tunic and grey leggings. Greg had even managed to scrounge up some boots to fit him, though they were laying in a pie next to the makeshift bed with his new winter cloak. John nodded to himself again, deciding to have clothes made for the slave at his first opportunity in the town center. For now, he gave Gregor the rest of the night off and set to examining the injury to the slave’s hip.      

“Nnnnnooooo,” John heard as he tucked his fingers into the waistband of the man’s bottoms and tugged. He smiled a little and looked up. The slave’s eyes were glassy but were trying to focus on John’s face.

“I’m John, your new owner. I am a healer; I need to see your wound. Actually,” John tugged the bottoms all the way down and off without protest. Except an impressive pout. “Can you tell me your name?”

“W’vr you wan’, you’re the owner,” the man slurred, hands flopping to cover his modesty and tugging the tunic down. John huffed a laugh and pulled them apart and up.

“Now, I’m not after your virtue here, just looking at your injury. Hush and be still.” The limp hands stayed where he put them, for all of a second. “No, tell me what you’re called, please. What did your mother call you?” John asked, keeping his tone hushed and calm. He inspected the wound, days old, but not more than a deep scratch. Gregor had cleaned it pretty well, he decided. John fetched some almond oil to stave off infection and rubbed it in gently.

“I…don’t have a moth’r,” the man slurred, speech coming back to him in increments. He winced at John’s ministrations, however gentle. But John was just impressed that he knew the common tongue enough to converse. That was already beyond the call of any slave; most around here only spoke the local Gaelic tongue. John wondered silently if the man could read and write. He finished with the oil and started pulling the man’s bottoms back up his long, long legs.

He’d be lying if he said he ignored the soft skin of them, or the scent of the man. Or the soft mound of flesh between those long, thin thighs. Or imagined being between them, at some point. John thought back to the brand on the man’s arse and bit his lips. He’d need time to heal properly first.

“Surely someone called you something, then. Tell me.” Bottoms back in place, John pulled at the man’s wrists until he was sitting upright, if wobbling slightly. John stared at his wild head of riotous black curls fondly.                  

The slave sighed and rubbed an eye, sleepy. “I’m called Sherlock.”

“Sherlock. Interesting name. Are you scots?” Down to those eyes. Like precious stone, something to be coveted and held fiercely to your chest.

“I’ve no idea. If you’d believe the locals, they’d say I came down from the mountains as a small boy on the back of a black dire-wolf and no one ever claimed me. I was barely walking, left outside to die in the winter. But evidently I made it.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted and John noted that he was trying to look around the room, gather his wits. John knelt in front of him and stoked the small fire in the center of the large space.

“The slaver said you’d been a _concubinus_ in your town? Is that true?” Sherlock grimaced but nodded.

“Only way to eat, most days. Or stay inside in winter.” John nodded silently and stood, going to the flap of the tent and shutting it. He tied it in place and went to a small table. Sherlock tracked his movement with slow eyes. The captain gathered a few trays of food and a skin of wine from the low table and came over, sitting so that he was facing Sherlock, his back to the opening of the tent. Sherlock eyed the food with veracity but had the decorum not to reach for it.

“Now. I told you I am a healer, and you are not my first slave. It’s not my first time having to feed up a malnourished purchase. You’re welcome to eat, but eat slow and do not get too full. I’ll not have you vomiting up perfectly good rations and wasting a damned thing, understand?” Sherlock nodded and still waited. After a few bites of his own, John huffed and picked up a slice of cheese and held it up. Sherlock leaned in and took it nimbly. Several olives and a fair few slices of smoked fish were lost before Sherlock slowed to a halt. John cleaned up the tray and set it back on the low table in the far corner. He returned with two horns of wine and dumped some clean water into Sherlock’s.

“We’ll be getting up mighty early so I can show you the camp, where to find everything. How to do some things. Where I go, you’ll go. Period. You’re to be my manservant, or valet, understood?” he paused, and Sherlock nodded, wide-eyed. He took a gulp of watery wine and stared at John. “When I get leave next week I will take you into town and order you some proper-fitting clothes. Those boots can’t be too comfortable. And that tunic is far too large. And you’ll be needing a winter cloak soon, with fur. It’s already getting cold out, this far north. Sherlock’s head bobbed along, more than half-drunk and nearly asleep. John smiled and let him straighten out on his pallet. He found a blanket and lowered it and Sherlock’s cloak over him before crawling into his own bed. Just before he fell asleep, he heard:

“Thank you, John. I won’t run.”          


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smutty 
> 
> ~edited~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sososososososososososoooooo sorry that this took nearly a damned year. good lord. frankly,i lost my drive for it and couldn't figure out how to end it best. I second-guess a LOT. ugh.  
> here you go, hope you like it.  
> xoxoxoxo
> 
> ps-- I tried to use little but actual roman factoids, like the walls/etc and the societal markers between gay men. it was allowed for a man to fuck a man, but one freed man could not bugger another freed man without either taking away his freedom (making him your slave) or (more likely) causing both of you to be killed/sold into slavery/etc. it was very strange. I used Wikipedia and my own old school notes (remember--historian/archaeologist here) to build my tenuous, probably terrible world. sorry.  
> This was intended to be a one-shot. Based on interest I may add to it, but it will be WIP and largely PWP.

**Two months later:**

"--and the men shall push forward, three kilometres per day until the permanent border in Scotland is established and held. After which, the company is ordered to split, half returning to the formal army in Londinium, to be divided and sent onward to face our Jewish enemies at home, in the throes of their second attempted revolt.

In the name of our most holy ruler, Caesar Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus Augustus." Sherlock sat on his small cot at the foot of John's bed and read the letter from the formal army to his master, who was pacing a few feet away, in a bored tone.  His stomach roiled at the thought of John leaving for a tour again, as he'd only been back two days from his last excursion. He hated to see John go, above all things. The man was not only the one person who's ever treated him differently, more as an equal than his usual shang's, but Sherlock fancied that they were quickly becoming friends as well. 

Well, as much as servant and master can be friends. 

Sherlock, as a slave, was not permitted to travel unless the entire company was moving. A small troupe of thirty soldiers was hardly enough to justify taking a servant or bed slave. He'd mostly hidden in John's tent to accept correspondence or handle minor affairs, and only went out for food or to bathe quickly when the rest of the men were sleeping or busy with duties. Feeling their eyes on his pale, exotic skin and lean form were nearly too much to bear, until their eyes slid inevitably to the Captain's sigil imprinted in his area. He was owned, marked goods, not to be tampered with. He'd never felt safer in his life, regardless of if it was demeaning or not. 

You can't sink much lower than a starving, homeless  _concubinus_ , after all. 

Not that it was easy for John to depart from his new friend, either; the men who travelled with John had taken the piss out of him numerous times for his desire to turn back. He'd been very uneasy leaving his new slave, a known _concubinus_ , at the camp with several men he knew for a fact would not blink at Sherlock telling them _no._   The Captain had been sent to another part of the wall to parlay with another group of Roman soldiers over the development of a more permanent and much larger wall, several hundred miles to the north.

John however, did _not_ take lightly the fact that Anderson had weaseled his way out of the journey. His absence was a thorn in John's side, as he knew that the man had been waiting for any excuse to get Sherlock alone since John had acquired him.  

But now John was home. For the time being, it seemed like all was well in their little duo.

John rubbed his thumb and fore finger into his eyes and came closer, standing between Sherlock's splayed knees. The younger man was still wild-haired and sleepy, draped in a blanket from John's mat, otherwise nude from John stripping him to run his hands all over his soft skin, ending in his pounding Sherlock's throat earlier.

The Captain was in casual clothes, a loose tunic with leggings and boots, a fine belt around his waist. Sherlock fingered the metal filigree there and waited for further instruction. John took a moment to gather his thoughts--as John was wont to do--and stared down into those exotic sea-glass eyes.

He'd largely played as John's bed partner and secretary for the few weeks before the soldier's departure (after John found out he could read and write in the common tongue as well as Gaelic and Greek)( _who was this man?!_ ) and the two days since his return had been a whirlwind of wild, oil-eased sex and letter-answering between the two of them. Quite a pile of correspondence had been delivered to Sherlock in John's absence, and without the authority to open it, let alone answer it, he'd been left with several burning questions. Particularly over the female names on some of the seals.  

Boring, it had turned out to be his sister and a housemaid, detailing the death of a mother and the finer runnings of the homestead in his--the  _pater_ _familia's_ \--absence from Rome.

But now John was here, between his long legs once again, and it was easy in their seclusion here to reach forward and draw the soldier down for a searing kiss that left them both wanting. Sherlock held his tongue before demanding _off_ with John's tunic, as it wasn't his place, but before long John was panting and stepping back to remove it himself.

"Remove that _blanket,"_   John growled, pushing at Sherlock's shoulder until he laid flat on the cot. Sherlock smiled and flicked the fabric away, revealing himself to the cold morning air, skin blood-flushed and hardening under John's demanding fingers. They raked over goose-bumped flesh, nails bearing down over peaked nipples. Sherlock arched up with a groan, burying his wild curls into the roll of cloth he used as a pillow. John chased up his long neck with lips and teeth, nibbling until he captured an earlobe and slid his hands around Sherlock's hips, thumb brushing the now-healed brand he'd put there. He scooped two handfuls of arse and squeezed, pinning his servant's hips to his own, rubbing their erections together with a beastly growl.

Sherlock, despite his previous life as a sex worker for food and clothes, loved how John fucked him. The captain had rough hands, that knew how to tear and rend and kill, and yet on Sherlock they were used to seduce, warm, and entice, as though it were necessary. John never barged in and rolled him over for a quick fuck, or pushed him to his knees without reciprocation. The only important difference was that aside from a sneaking finger or two in the heat of a very thorough blow job, Sherlock had never been inside John. It simply wasn't allowed, from a societal standpoint. John could and would stand to lose his station, freedom, and position in society if he allowed a man, especially his own slave, to bugger him.

Luckily, Sherlock didn't mind taking it. It of course made it better that John was not afraid to suck him off after, if need be. Just like now, as John mouthed his way back down, stopping to lick hot into Sherlock's parted lips, hands still grasping, on his path south. The servant's breath increased the further down John lapped, ducking the tip of his tongue into Sherlock's navel, swirling before nipping the little bottom edge, making a sharp jolt wrack through Sherlock's skinny form.  By the time he reached the wet tip of Sherlock's cock, his slave was trembling from trying to hold still for him. John rewarded this endeavor with a filthy kiss to the tip of his cock, fingers worming in between his arse cheeks. Sherlock spread his legs wide, his feet flat on the edges of his cot.

"Hold these," John muttered, handing Sherlock the backs of his own knees and tasting his palate once more in a languid kiss, reaching blindly for their bottle of almond oil. Sherlock groaned into the messy kiss and held them, tilting his hips up. The soldier between his legs uncorked the glass vial and tilted a palm-full of oil out, using it to wet his fingers and moving to slicken Sherlock's tight, furled hole before ducking down to paint a wet swatch instead with his tongue.

"Gah," Sherlock gasped, jerking minutely. John grinned against his thigh and used his slick thumbs to part cheeks, tucking his own deep in the seam of Sherlock's arse, licking and softening that tight hole with gentle but insistent swirls. By the time he was jabbing in with determined pokes, Sherlock was ready to burst. But John was enjoying himself, so he waited, vibrating in silence.

"Relax, love," John sighed, sitting up on his elbows, sliding his middle finger into Sherlock's hole all the way. The practiced slave took it with a sigh, ready for a proper rogering after this round of very in-depth foreplay. His blood was humming,  near-boiling as he tried to remember to breathe.

John mouthed at his cock loosely, not wanting to push him over the edge, but pulled off, switching tactics. He propped up on his knees and slid his finger out gently. "Roll over, Sherlock," John whispered, biting at his kneecap. His slave blinked into the middle-distance for a beat, registering his wants before rolling to his front. John tucked a cushion from a chair under his man's groin and situated himself on Sherlock's closed thighs, just under the swell of his bum. His wet fingers slid back into that greased crack easily, finding his loosened hole and diving two in at once.      

Within minutes, Sherlock was actively humping the cushion beneath him and babbling, hoping without demanding that John would dive in soon.             

John re-positioned his knees on either side of Sherlock's slim hips and angled his cock down with wet fingers, sliding in smoothly until his bollocks were pressed against the underside of Sherlock's small-but-perfect arse. They both groaned deep at the heady stretch, fingers hardly long enough to do justice in stretching for John's impressive dimensions, but Sherlock clenched the sides of the cot in his fingers and blew his breath out, bearing down to accommodate him easily.

John knew he was about to devolve into his usual myriad grunts of _god, yes, Sherlock, fuck, more, right there, don't ever move, hold this, like that? Close?  A_ s he thrust in and out gently the first few goes, Sherlock groaned on every pull out and his breath hitched every time John shoved back in. They quickly set up a rhythm before Sherlock started squirming tellingly.

Without warning, John slid out halfway and pushed his knees back to Sherlock's own and parted them, tugging the slave up and back with him. John was left sitting on his own heels, with Sherlock's legs outside his own, his body impaled on John's cock and at the mercy of gravity and mutual exhaustion, it left John buried in deep and centered on that nub inside his arse that left his body shaking. Sherlock huffed out a harsh breath and it seemed as if his strings were cut, limbs hanging uselessly at his sides as John gripped his hips, rocking them together until Sherlock could get his muscles to behave.

The soldier sat back and held tight, one hand on Sherlock's hip, the other wrapped around his cock in a oiled vise, forcing the slave to fuck into his fist and then back onto his cock alternately. Within seconds they were at the brink, Sherlock's prostate becoming tender as it was abused over and over. He came first with a harsh shout and tensed muscles, spilling all over John's fist and the cot before falling forward onto his chest and face, letting John set a punishing pace, slamming hips into hips and steamrolling into his own violent orgasm seconds later. They were both left quaking and out of breath by the time John slid out and rolled to his side, squishing Sherlock into the narrow space between his own body and the bar on the side of his cot.

"John," Sherlock said after a long bout of silence, letting their breath even out. The soldier tensed at the familiarity, but let it slide, as always, when they were alone. "Are you leaving me here again when you travel next?"

John released his tension and sighed. "Sherlock, I can't release you with a brand. Otherwise I would, or give you a position here, like I did with Gregor and Mike. But no, I have no intention of leaving you here when we travel north, nor when we go back to Londinium or back to Rome. But we need to work on you manners if you're coming back to the formal army with me, yeah? No more informal addressing, no more petulant glares when I send you out on errands. Someone will-- _will, Sherlock,_ make the mistake that you're just a bed slave because of your impudence and will try to bugger you if you act like that. Do we need to do more training or--"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, then looked chastened. that's exactly what John meant by being impudent. John let a thin smile play on his lips and waited. "No, sir. I'll behave. I can, I'll make sure you see it before we go. Just don't leave me here alone again, it was awful."

"Did someone try to fuck you?" John asked, tensing. "Sherlock," he growled at the stillness of the man in his arms. Sherlock exhaled in a gust and hid his face. "Tell me who, _now_. Anderson?" His slave nodded against his clavicle, and John fumed. "Going to go cut his _bleeding cock off_ ," John struggled to get up from the cot, but Sherlock tugged at his limbs, trying to keep him down.

"John, uh, sir, you realize that I literally can _not_ refuse. It's not a matter of him being abusive of his power, it's a matter of because of this brand, I have no say-so. You're basing his will not not rape me on his willingness to turn away because of a claim-mark. If he pushes me to my knees outside of your presence, I can't refuse or he could just as easily slit my throat and leave me in a gutter for you to find as punishment. He made me suck him off twice, but was far more concerned with the girls that house themselves on the edge of the camp." Sherlock left his face buried, hands clenched around John's forearm and a handful of skin on his side. 

"Well, then, Sherlock. Clearly I can never leave you behind again." John was still vibrating with fury, but allowed himself to be coddled into a tight embrace that left them both easier-minded than before. John tightened his arms and nestled his head down into a mop of wild black curls, breathing deep.

The soldier had never been more pleased with one of his rescues, and believed that the day he saved Sherlock from that slaver, he'd gained a companion and lover for life.

He couldn't possibly have been more correct. 

**Author's Note:**

> leave me the kudos and the comments, wermz.


End file.
